Lascivia Capessita
by Jake Crepeau
Summary: After fifth year, grieving for Sirius and completely despondent, Harry steps into a Floo and utters an address he isn't even sure really exists.
1. Chapter 1

**Harry Potter:  
** **Lascivia Capessita  
** **by  
** **Jake Crepeau**

 **Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is the intellectual property of JK Rowling, Warner Brothers Studios, and a host of other entities, none of which are me.

 **Chapter 1**

Harry came through the barrier and stopped dead in his tracks. Just a few feet away, Alastor Moody and a few other members of the Order were in Uncle Vernon's face, reading him the riot act. Quietly, he withdrew back through the barrier.

He knew exactly what would happen if he dared to go back to Privet Drive now. He could hear his uncle snarling in his head. _They want us to leave you alone? We'll leave you alone._ And he would be locked in his room, lucky to get a bowl of soup once a day through the cat-flap, his only companionship the complaints he would have to endure when nightmares woke him and everyone else in the middle of the night.

He expected those nightmares were really going to ramp up now. Bad enough he was going to be seeing Sirius' death all over again in his sleep, but he was also going to have to deal with Moldyshorts' taunting him through the link the bastard now knew existed. The Dursleys' yelling at him over it was only going to make it worse.

He didn't want to go to the Burrow. The Weasleys were great, but if he had to unload on Molly and Arthur, he knew that Molly's eyes, at least, would be filled with pity, and that was the last thing he wanted. Ron and the twins knew some of it, had seen it for themselves after first year, but at least they just let it lie. The dramatic rescue they'd mounted that summer had let him know, better than anything else, that they were there for him.

He could get himself a room at the Leaky Cauldron, but that was the first place they'd look for him. He even considered just staying right there at the platform all summer; he doubted anyone would expect him to try that. It wouldn't be pleasant or comfortable, but it was better than what he faced at home.

He sat bolt upright on the bench he'd been sitting slouched on. _As long as you can call it home,_ Dumbledore had said in first year when he had pleaded not to be sent back there. Well, he'd put paid to those blood wards right now. "Number 4, Privet Drive is not my home! It has _never_ been my home!"

Back at Hogwarts, a _screeeee_ sound drew the Headmaster from his private quarters into his office, where he stopped dead. One of his little whirlygigs had ceased its activity and was now spewing black smoke, and Dumbledore's heart sank. He didn't know what had happened, but the wards on Privet Drive had just collapsed.

Harry realized, from the echo rebounding around the platform, that he'd spoken much louder than he'd intended to. He looked around, expecting to see the few remaining people staring at him as if he'd gone mental.

There was only one family left, at the far end of the platform, and they vanished in a flash of green flame.

Curious now, he walked to where they had been. Green flame meant a Floo…Sure enough, there were four fireplaces along the wall across from the train.

If there was Floo access directly to the platform, why did the Weasleys always come in through the Muggle side? Was it the few Knuts it would cost to go back through the Floo from this side?

A horrible thought occurred to him. The twins had told him Ginny had fancied him since she'd been little, because of some outlandish books about him her mother had read to her every night, and Ginny had read and re-read for herself once she had learned how. Her attempts to befriend him suddenly took on a disturbing cast, made her look like nothing but a fangirl. And Ron…had he really been Harry's friend? Somehow he doubted it, after the choosing of the champions for the Tournament in fourth year. A _real_ friend wouldn't have made the accusations Ron had. So what was his angle? Was he hoping to have some of Harry's fame rub off on him? He could have it all, as far as Harry was concerned. But then why _continue,_ he wondered, circling back to the original question. They used the Floo to go to Diagon Alley; why not the platform?

Maybe it had all been a plot to start with. Maybe it had all been a way to meet up with the Boy Who Lived. Then, of course, they would have to continue to get to the platform from the Muggle side just to keep up the charade.

Merlin, he was getting to be as paranoid as Moody.

Morosely, he gazed unseeing at the fireplaces. Everybody else had homes to go to. All he'd ever had was Durskaban.

He thought of the piles of money in his Gringotts vault. That was an awful lot of gold, and it hadn't gone down visibly since the first time he'd seen it. It meant his family had been well off. The other families had manors and halls. All he knew about was the cottage in Godric's Hollow, which he'd never seen, except in those pictures Hagrid had given him at the end of first year. From talking to some of the kids at school, he knew the wealthier families had other properties, not just their primary homes. Maybe there was an actual Potter Manor somewhere.

He'd have to get to Gringotts and talk to the Goblins. They ought to know. Or he could just try the Floo. What happened if you tried to go through to an address that didn't exist? Another wave of depression washed over him, and he decided he didn't care. He dropped a couple of Knuts into the coin box, took a handful of Floo powder, and stepped into the fireplace. "Potter Manor!" he called out and threw the powder down.

He was surprised when the green flash surrounded him, and he started spinning. As dizziness began to overwhelm him, he wondered if he would just keep spinning forever, or if the system would eventually just spit him out…somewhere. After all, it had ejected him in Borgin and Burke's in Knockturn Alley when a mouthful of ash had distorted his pronunciation of "Diagon Alley" just before second year.

Apparently the latter, he thought when he slid across a cold, smoothly polished surface in an unfamiliar room. He sat up and looked around. The room was dark; he noticed that was because heavy drapes covered the windows. Looking down, he found a floor covered in pale-colored tiles; in the dimness, he couldn't identify the material.

"Hello. Who are you?" a voice said, and he looked around, trying to find the source.

"Up here!" the voice said, and Harry's gaze followed the direction of the sound until he spotted a portrait above the mantel.

A somewhat elderly couple stared down at him, and the woman gasped. "James?" she asked hesitantly.

"Uh…No. Sorry. I'm his son, Harry."

"We have a grandson?" the man said.

Harry goggled. "There really _is_ a Potter Manor!"

"Well, of _course_ there is. You're here, aren't you? You didn't just step into the Floo and call out an address you didn't even know was real, did you?" he added facetiously.

He flushed bright red and hoped they couldn't see it in the gloom.

"Oh, dear, I think that's exactly what he did," the woman clucked. "Harry, dear, you'd better sit down and tell us exactly what's happened since James and Lily left." That single sentence told him this couple must be Charlus and Dorea, his grandparents, who had only been names on a tapestry before this.

In shock, he collapsed onto a sheet-covered armchair.

He'd begun with what had happened that Hallowe'en night in 1981. He'd told them how he had been left with his aunt and uncle, then his first day in Diagon Alley.

Dorea had stopped him at that point, unwilling to let him gloss over ten years of his life like that. Charlus had initially taken Harry's side, but then, when Harry had said that there wasn't anything worth talking about there, he'd caught something in the boy's voice and then joined his wife in coaxing the tale out of him.

It had come in fits and starts at first, and then something inside him had snapped and the floodgates had opened. Feeling as if some deep, festering wound had been lanced, he'd sat there sobbing his heart out. Somewhere in the deep recesses of forgotten memory, the toddler he had once been reached for his mummy to hold him. Of course that was impossible, and being only a painting, neither could his grandparents, but their soothing words did help.

Now he sat there exhausted.

"I think he's had enough for now," Dorea said.

"Agreed," Charlus replied. "He needs food, and then rest. Tolly!"

"No, dear. Lily and James had to release him when they went into hiding, remember?"

Harry grinned crookedly. "So, no house elf, huh?" He shrugged. "I'm no stranger to cooking and cleaning. I can manage myself for a few days, until I can…" He trailed off. "Wait, I think I can right now. Dobby!"

With a pop, the hyperactive elf appeared in front of him. "Great Harry Potter Sir calls Dobby?"

He grinned sheepishly at the adoring elf's greeting. "Dobby, I need something to eat, and I seriously doubt there's anything edible here."

Looking around cautiously, the elf's ears drooped. "Dobby cannot do anything here, sir," he said sadly, wringing his hands. "Dobby is not of this house."

Harry cast a helpless look at the portrait.

"Who is this elf currently bound to?" Dorea asked kindly.

"Dobby's a free elf," Harry told her.

"How is he still alive?" Charlus wanted to know.

The elf answered that himself. "Dobby is employed at Hogwarts, sir; castle magic sustains Dobby."

Now Harry was even more puzzled. "Dobby, what are you all talking about?"

The hand-wringing became more agitated. "House-elves need magic from wizards, sir…"

"I'll explain it, Dobby," Charlus said. "Harry, do you know what a symbiote is?"

"I remember something about that from my primary-school science classes; it's something like a parasite, only instead of just taking from the host, it also gives something back."

"Right. House elves are symbiotes. They need our magic to survive; in turn, they serve us and also strengthen our magic. We can survive, and thrive, without them, but they can't without us."

Harry's eyes went wide. "So that means, if he wasn't working at Hogwarts with the castle's magic to feed him…"

"Exactly. Normally, they get our magic by bonding to us."

Then it clicked. "And that's why you can't do anything here as a free elf, because it's not your family, right?"

Another nod.

"Dobby, I don't think just hiring you would work. I'd have to bind you to the Potter Family, wouldn't I?"

Again he nodded, but this time his ears were starting to pick up.

Oh, great. Just what he needed. A hero-worshipping fan-elf. But there was nothing for it. "Do you _want_ to be bound to my House?"

This time the nod was so vigorous, his ears flapped, actually creating a slight breeze.

"So how do we do this?"

Dobby took his hand. "Dobby accepts Harry Potter for his master," he said. There was bright flash, and suddenly the little elf seemed to grow just a little. "Potter magic very strong!" he said in awe. "Dobby never felt this much power with his old family."

"Never mind that now. I have three tasks for you. First, I need you to find the kitchen, clean and stock it, and get me something to eat…Uh, how do you go shopping, anyway?"

"Master Harry must give Dobby permission to use his vault. Then Dobby can go shopping for Master Harry."

"Anything special, or can I just say I give my permission?"

"Master's word is enough, but Dobby will need Master's vault key."

Then Harry realized what was wrong. "I don't have it. Last time I saw it, Hagrid had it."

"Who is Hagrid?" Charlus asked.

"He's the groundskeeper at Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore—he's the headmaster now—sent him to deliver my letter and take me to Diagon Alley."

"And what was he doing with your key?"

"I have no idea. And he didn't give it to me when we were done, either."

"Tell your elf to get it for you. He should be able to find who has it and get it without ever being seen."

"Dobby knows where it is," the elf added when Harry looked at him. "Headmaster has it."

"Well, go get it, then take out however much you need from my vault. Once you've done the shopping, you can make dinner. After that, I'll need a room cleaned so I can get some sleep. After dinner, please see if you can find an elf named…Tolly, was it?" he asked the portrait. At their nods, he continued, "…Tolly. If he's still free, ask him if he wants to return to the Potter Family. If he's attached to another family, if he's happy there, let him stay where he is."

With a bow and a snap of his fingers, Dobby was gone.

Harry spent a restless night, haunted with the expected nightmares about Sirius; at least it wasn't compounded by anything from Voldemort.

He hadn't really had the time or energy to observe much last night; he'd stumbled into the room after eating a meal every bit as satisfying as any Hogwarts feast, stripped to his underpants, and stumbled into the bed, remaining awake only long enough to appreciate, for a few brief moments, the comfort of it.

He awoke to sunlight streaming in through windows whose drapes had been opened sometime while he'd slept, the potential glare filtered to a pleasant softness through the sheer curtains under the drapes. They waved a little in the light morning breeze. The walls were a soft cream color, beautifully highlighting the satin-finished cypress of the window casements and doorframes; the floor, also of cypress, was polished to a high gloss. The furniture was of walnut and included a four-poster bed similar to his bed at Hogwarts, along with a nightstand, wardrobe and dresser, and a desk and chair. A small bookcase stood near the desk; the room was large enough that there was also a loveseat and coffee table in front of a fireplace big enough to heat the room comfortably in the winter.

Dobby had apparently been busy overnight; he found his schoolbooks had been arranged on the bookshelves, and his clothes had been put away. Examination of the desk drawers disclosed his quills, ink, and parchment; an owl perch stood near the windows, with cups containing owl treats and water. He wondered how he could get Hedwig here; he'd sent her to spend the summer at the Burrow, where she wouldn't be confined to a locked cage. A large chest at the foot of his bed proved to hold heavier blankets suitable for the winter months; his uniforms remained neatly folded in his school trunk, which stood against the wall under the windows. A second door led into an ensuite.

He got dressed, noticing that the worn spots in the hand-me-downs had been repaired, as had been the oversized trainers…only they weren't oversized anymore; apparently Dobby had magically shrunk them to fit his feet. Though they no longer needed to be held together with tape, they did still look about ready for the bin. Once he was done, he made his way down to the kitchen to get some breakfast.

Dobby had been _very_ busy overnight, he decided as soon as he'd stepped past his bedroom door. The dust that had hung heavy in the air was gone, and every surface was clean. A large window at the end let sunlight in to illuminate the hallway and stairwell; the long runner that extended down the middle of the hallway's polished wood floor continued down the center of the stairs.

Those stairs brought him back down into the entrance hall he'd been in last night; his grandparents smiled at him as he came down, with cheerful morning salutations for him.

Two elves stood at the bottom of the stairs to greet him, Dobby and an unfamiliar one he presumed was Tolly. That elf bowed. "Thank you for bringing me back home, Master Harry," he said. "I've missed the Potters."

Harry smiled. "It's good to have you back," he said, and, cued by a gesture from Dobby, held a hand out toward the elf, who took it and uttered the statement that would renew the bond. Then it was breakfast in the informal dining room—now that it was clean, there was no reason for Master to have to eat in the kitchen.

The bright, airy atmosphere of the spacious rooms, and the knowledge that he was truly loved here, even if it was just by a portrait, combined to drive away the depressing pall of his nightmares. Finished eating, he thanked Tolly—Dobby was back in the kitchen, cleaning up, he supposed—and asked about a tour of the place.

"That will have to come later, Master Harry," Tolly told him. "Your grandparents wish to speak with you; it's a matter of some urgency."

"Okay. Tolly, how come you don't speak like other elves?"

"I used to," he said. "Mistress Lily insisted I learn to speak properly."

"I like it," he grinned. "I'd like you to teach Dobby, as well."

"It will be done, Master. Now, if you would?" He held out an arm, indicating the way back to the entrance hall.

"You'll be very busy today, Harry," his grandfather said when he'd taken a seat. "First of all, those clothes simply will not do. You have an image to maintain, after all. You'll take Tolly with you to Diagon Alley and get some new clothes. You're not to walk out of the store wearing your old ones; you're Heir Potter, and your appearance reflects on your House."

Harry couldn't help smiling. For all that the tone was clearly commanding, it was still gentle. It felt good.

"Once you're more properly dressed, you'll need to go to Gringotts and speak with Kurluk; he's the Potter accounts manager. From what you told us last night, you still have to hear your parents' will, and your godfather's will, as well. Kurluk will also bring you up to date on the status of our accounts."

"Did you say accounts, plural? I'm only aware of one vault."

Dorea smiled. "That's only your trust vault," she said. "There are others, containing heirlooms as well as liquid assets."

"That's just a _trust_ vault?" Harry blurted in shock. "I don't think I could spend what's in that vault in my whole _lifetime!"_

"You'd be surprised," Charlus chuckled. "Right now, your needs aren't that great. Once you're of age and come fully into your inheritance, it'll be different. Maintaining the image of a Most Ancient House is expensive.

"When you're done with the will and the accounts, there's another matter you'll need to address with the Goblins: Your scar."

"What about it?" Harry asked, then sudden hope bloomed. "Does this have something to do with the link between me and Voldemort?"

"Yes, but first of all, since you tell us he's back, you need to stop saying his name."

"Why?" he asked, puzzled. "Dumbledore always said that fear of the name makes us more afraid of the man."

"That's true, but…do you know what a Taboo is?"

He could hear the capital letter in there, and thus suspected it wasn't just the kind of cultural prohibition normally indicated by the word. "Uh, no."

"It's a spell put on a word. The man put one on his name, so that if anyone said it, he could immediately tell where that person was. That's why, even while he was gone, people kept referring to him as 'You-Know-Who.' Clearly he hasn't renewed the Taboo yet, but he probably will, so, for your own safety, you need to get out of the habit of saying his name.

"Now, back to your scar. From your description of the diary incident, it sounds like the reason You-Know-Who didn't truly die that night is because of something called a Horcrux." He went on to explain what a Horcrux was. "That link you have with him suggests you may actually be a Horcrux yourself."

"That actually makes sense," Harry said, firmly suppressing the wave of horror that attempted to overtake him. "It explains why my scar hurts when he's using the link, or when I'm near him. But how do I get rid of it?"

"We don't know," Dorea said. "Nothing I've ever read about them mentions anything about a living vessel. But if it is possible to remove it without harm to you, the Goblins will be able to do it. You need to bring that up with Kurluk."

"There's also the matter of Dumbledore himself," Charlus said, and Harry could tell he was reluctant now. "He always was secretive, but it sounds like he may be carrying it a little too far. This is all information he should have given you long ago."

"I know," Harry grumbled, his anger rising once more. "I really wish I'd known about that damned prophecy _before_ Sirius was killed."

"I'll be speaking with Phineas," Dorea said firmly. "He needs to give Dumbledore a good tongue-lashing."

Puzzled for a moment, Harry then realized, that as a Black, Dorea probably had another portrait in one of the Black properties to which she could travel, and from there to one of the portraits of Phineas Nigellus Black—who, he recalled, also had a portrait in the Headmaster's office.

All these years, and he _still_ kept forgetting that the people in portraits could move from one painting to another.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Special thanks to my beta, Jordre! ;D

 **Chapter 2**

As he prepared to go to Diagon Alley, Harry realized that Tolly's presence made sense, and not just for carrying packages. The elf was familiar with the sort of garb that would be required of him at this stage, and so could provide advice as well.

When the two entered the Alley from the back of the Leaky Cauldron, Harry was surprised at how much the atmosphere in the place had changed since his last visit. Gone were the cheerful air and the crowds socializing in the street; people rushed about with their heads down, as if fearful they'd be seen, exchanging only the briefest of greetings with each other before they hurried on their respective ways. There was no gathering of youngsters in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies; in fact, he belatedly realized, there was not a single child of any age anywhere to be seen. It was actually heartening to see; it meant that not everyone was buying Fudge's denial.

Madam Malkin and her personnel did not display any of their usual affability, working quickly and with a minimum of conversation. He felt he was almost rushed through making selections. He didn't question, though; he knew people just wanted to get their necessary errands done as quickly as possible and get safely back behind their home wards. He couldn't blame the shopkeepers for facilitating that need. He was rather grateful himself that magic made it possible to be out of there and on his way in a new set of robes within a few minutes; he'd stop and pick up the rest on his way back.

The queue to the tellers' windows wasn't very long; within another few minutes, he was telling a disinterested-seeming teller, "Harry Potter to see Kurluk, please."

The Goblin scrutinized him closely. "Key, please."

Harry handed it across, glad that Dobby had been able to take care of that little problem the previous day. After examining it, he handed it back and returned to his work, motioning for him to step aside so the next customer could approach.

Barely had he done so when another Goblin entered the lobby. "Follow me, Mr. Potter," he said, and led Harry into a long corridor lined with doors. When he stopped, he opened one of them and motioned Harry inside.

The Goblin seated behind the desk had several thick ledgers on the desk before him; he motioned Harry to a seat, and when he had settled in it, said, "We have been trying to contact you for a very long time, Mr. Potter."

It was the last thing he had expected to hear. "Really? I haven't received anything from you."

"Your magical guardian didn't pass on our mail to you?"

"No, sir. The only mail I've ever gotten was my Hogwarts letters, my _Daily Prophet_ subscription, and letters from friends." After a moment, he added, "Sir, until this morning, I didn't even know I had other vaults besides my trust vault."

That got the Goblin's attention. "He didn't tell you?"

"No. Not one word. I just discovered I had a manor yesterday evening. This is the first time I'm hearing anything about a magical guardian." Suddenly, some of Dumbledore's behavior made sense. He'd wondered why Dumbledore got to tell him where to spend his summers, and what made him think he had the authority to do so. "Who is it, anyway?" he asked, already strongly suspecting the answer.

He was right. "Albus Dumbledore."

Now Harry also understood his grandfather's reluctance in commenting about Dumbledore's secrecy. Since the Potters were light, it stood to reason they had probably been friends with the Headmaster, and hadn't liked having to reveal something…less than complimentary about him.

He reached up and rubbed his scar as it began to burn; now he looked at Kurluk with urgency in his eyes. "There's something else I just learned that I've been advised you might be able to help me with. I've been told that I might be carrying a Horcrux in my scar."

Kurluk looked at him in alarm. "Whose?"

"V…uh, Tom Riddle. He calls himself…You-Know-Who."

"It's safe to say his name here, Mr. Potter. If he has re-established the Taboo, it cannot penetrate our wards."

"Thanks, that's good to know. But if something can be done, can we investigate that _before_ we go into my accounts? He knows there's a link between us, and he's already used it against me once. My scar burns when he does, and it's starting to bother me now."

"Come with me, then. This just became an emergency."

Harry grinned as he looked in a mirror. The pain of the removal had been excruciating; in the process, his scar had burst open and started bleeding. A healer had seen to it as soon as the ritual had been finished, and now, after some time for recovery, there was no trace of it. The whole business had cost him several hundred Galleons, but he didn't mind. He'd have given up his entire trust vault if that was what it would have taken.

"If you're done admiring yourself over there, Mr. Potter, we still have business to attend to," Kurluk said amusedly.

That business left Harry in something of a daze. To his vast relief, a middle-aged gentleman by the name of Ben Walsh had been introduced to him as his parents' solicitor; knowing he was in well over his head in estate matters, he readily renewed the man's retainer. There had been a whirlwind of papers to be signed, and the matter of the heirs' rings. The fact that there was more than one was a major surprise to him. He learned that his mother had not been, strictly speaking, a Muggleborn. While the Potters were descended from Ignotus Peverell, the Evanses could claim his brother Cadmus as their distant ancestor…Cadmus, whose daughter had married a scion of the Slytherin Family, making Harry the only living descendant of Salazar Slytherin. Yes, Tom Riddle had been Slytherin's heir, but, due to the fact that he had technically died, he could no longer claim that distinction, and it now fell to Harry. Even if a case could be made that Riddle had not truly died because of his Horcruxes, Harry's defeat of him in 1981, 1991, and 1992 meant he had taken the position of heir from him by conquest. That he was also heir by blood only made his claim that much stronger.

Not that the worst dark wizard since Grindelwald was about to fight a legal battle in the Ministry over it.

Next had followed his godfather's will. Unsurprisingly, aside from bequests made to a cousin named Andromeda Tonks, and to Remus Lupin, Sirius had willed the rest to Harry. He had also stated that Harry was to be emancipated, and that meant he now wore, not the Heirs' rings, but the Heads' rings. He was officially the Head of House for Potter, Black, and Slytherin. He would also have been Head of House Peverell, but the Peverell name had gone extinct, and the House's Honors had been absorbed by the Houses of Potter and Slytherin.

Kurluk paused in his explanations long enough to write something on a piece of parchment, which he then passed to Harry. "Touch your wand to your Slytherin ring, and read this declaration," he instructed.

Harry glanced it over, then did as he'd been told. "I, Lord Harry James Potter-Slytherin, do hereby declare Tom Marvolo Riddle Junior, also known as Lord Voldemort, formerly the self-proclaimed Heir of Slytherin, to be a traitor and enemy of House Slytherin. So I say, so mote it be," he read. There was a flash of light, and a rather odd feeling inside. "What did I just do?" he asked.

Walsh was positively smirking; with his own toothy, evil-looking grin, Kurluk explained, "The simplest explanation is that you just disowned Voldemort. Being head of House Slytherin puts you in a position of command over him. The fact that he's actively working against your interests means that his magic is being stripped from him even as we speak. This sort of casting out is different from the usual passive pronouncement; it must be accomplished with a specific ritual declaration—which you just made."

Voldemort had just begun a scan of Potter's surface thoughts. The boy was deeply depressed, though something had his attention and interest at the moment. He was just beginning to establish a deeper connection when something abruptly ended it altogether, and he could not re-establish it. That couldn't be right; Severus had told him the boy had no Occlumency shields at all. Some outside influence must be shielding him. As he mulled over the possibilities, he summoned Severus.

A few moments later, the Potions Master was kneeling before him. "Rise, Severus. Tell me, where does Harry Potter live?"

"I am told he resides with Muggle relatives in Little Whinging, in Surrey."

"I need his exact location. Something is blocking my access to his thoughts, and I must find out what it is."

"The blood wards, perhaps?"

"Since his blood was used in the ritual that returned me to a body, those wards should not stop me from finding him."

"My Lord, I do not know his address offhand; I will need to go back to Hogwarts and look it up."

"Do so, and return immediately. I must send my people out to collect him for me."

"Yes, my Lord."

Once Snape had left, Voldemort summoned the rest of his Death Eaters.

The minutes slowly ticked past; one by one, his loyal followers entered his presence, but still there was no sign of Severus. Angrily, he decided to summon the man again, but before he could, a sudden, massive drain of his magic overtook him, and he went even paler than usual.

"My Lord, are you all right?" someone asked.

Worried about the source of the drain, and angered by Severus' delay in returning, the Dark Lord's temper was not helped by the fool's drawing attention to his momentary weakness. _"Crucio!"_ he snarled, but the spell was cut short when Nagini reared up with an almighty hiss, just before her head exploded with a burst of searing light, and she fell over, dead.

In a vault in Gringotts, a priceless historical artifact suddenly began to glow, then emitted a stream of cleansing light, shot through with dark streaks, accompanied by a blood-curdling scream that no one heard. The same happened in an abandoned shack in Little Hangleton and in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts. At Number 12, Grimmauld Place, only a grumpy old house elf heard the scream, but, seeing the light pouring forth from the old locket, he felt peace for the first time in many years: His old master's last order had finally been carried out.

The rate of drain increased drastically, and Voldemort began to draw on his followers, through the Dark Mark that linked each one to him. One by one, in concentric circles moving outward, they dropped to the floor and moved no more.

Snape muttered imprecations under his breath. Harry's file, which should have had his contact information in it, was not among the student files. Minerva informed him that Dumbledore kept it hidden in his office; even she didn't know where it was. He asked her if she knew Harry's address, but it had been so long since she had been there that she could no longer remember precisely; all she recalled was that the street was named for a shrub. That was a singularly uninformative clue, since, she recalled, _all_ the streets in that area were named after flowers or shrubs. Since mail owls could locate people without addresses unless they were behind wards specifically blocking them, street addresses weren't normally necessary for correspondence.

As he turned to leave, planning on going to the Ministry to look it up there, he suddenly swayed as he walked, then grabbed at the doorframe to keep from falling over. "Severus? What is it?" Minerva asked, concerned.

"My magic…siphoning…" He fell over, unconscious, and Minerva levitated him to the hospital wing.

The inflow of magic from his followers did not help. Whatever was pulling on his magic was working faster than they could feed him. A strange feeling spread across his skin, one he'd experienced only once before, when the body of Quirinus Quirrel had disintegrated at Potter's touch. This time, however, the body he inhabited was not a natural human body, but a magical construct, sustained by his own magic; without it, the form could not be sustained and began to crumble.

In his room, Draco tried to do his homework, but he couldn't concentrate, knowing the Dark Lord was downstairs. He was due to take the Mark himself next year, but until then, his parents would not allow him to attend meetings.

He didn't understand why he had to bother with his homework. He'd passed his OWLS; he didn't have to go back. But his parents insisted; once the Dark Lord had taken over and things settled back down, they said, he would be going back to complete his education. In the meantime, he was not to allow himself to fall behind.

Then his mother's scream split the air; homework and all warnings forgotten, he burst out of his room and ran down to the conference room.

His mother was the only one still on her feet in the; she stood surrounded by fallen witches and wizards, and a pile of robes was draped over the Dark Lord's otherwise empty throne. "Mother? What happened?"

"I…I don't know," she said. "The Dark Lord looked ill. Then Nagini's head exploded, and after that everyone just started falling over. Those standing nearest him fell first. When they were all down, the Dark Lord just...disintegrated. He looked like his body was turning to ash." Regaining some of her composure, she cast a diagnostic spell on Bellatrix. Reading the results, she stumbled and would have fallen if Draco hadn't grabbed her and supported her. "She's dead." She cast again. "So's he…Merlin, they're _all_ dead. We have to get out of here. Go pack; we're going to the villa in France. Take everything; it has to look like it was a planned holiday. Hurry!"

Madam Pomfrey looked up as Dumbledore came in. "What happened?" he asked.

"He's suffering from magical exhaustion," Poppy said. "I don't know how it happened; Minerva told me he just suddenly weakened, and said something about his magic being siphoned before he passed out."

There was only one way that could have happened, Dumbledore knew, and he immediately approached the unconscious Potions Master and pushed up his left sleeve.

The man's forearm was completely clear.

Dumbledore knocked on the Dursleys' door; Vernon opened it, and before the headmaster could get a single word out, said, "How dare you send your _people_ to threaten me at the station—and then the brat never even shows up! He's not here, I have no idea where he is, and good riddance to bad rubbish! Good day!" And with that, he slammed the door in the headmaster's face, bloodying his nose as he had leaned a little too close to said door.

After casting simple healing and cleansing charms on himself, he knocked again. There was no answer; apparently they were going to ignore him completely now. Well, it didn't really matter. He had what he had come for: The wards were indeed gone, and a quick scan of the Muggle's surface thoughts had shown him to be telling the truth: He had not seen Harry at the station, and he was not here now. Checking to make sure no one was watching, he Disapparated, and went to the Burrow.

"He got off the train with us, and I saw him heading towards the barrier, but that was the last I saw of him before Mum and Dad took us home," Ron replied to the headmaster's question.

"Did he say anything during the journey that might indicate where he might go?"

Ron shook his head. "He didn't say much of anything at all, the whole trip. Losing Sirius hit him really hard."

 _That's exactly what I'm worried about._ He kept that thought to himself, however.

Apparently Molly's thoughts were going down the same channels, for the next thing she said was, "You don't think he might have gone and done something…hasty, do you?"

It was Ron who answered. "No; I think he's hiding somewhere."

"And why do you think that, Mr. Weasley?" Dumbledore asked.

"Are you kidding? Every time someone from our world talks to those Muggles, they take it out on him. He comes out of the platform, sees the Order pretty much reading the riot act to the Dursleys—After what I've seen them do to him, I don't blame him for doing a runner. I would, too!"

"What do you mean?" Molly said.

George broke in at this point. "Mum, we weren't exaggerating when we told you they put bars on his window," he said. "We had to use the car to pull them off, and then we got Harry out through the window. There must have been at least three locks on the outside of his bedroom door; we could hear his uncle opening them while we pulled Harry out. And there was a cat-flap at the bottom of the door; he told us that was where they slid food in for him…when they bothered. Haven't you ever wondered why he's so skinny when he comes here every summer? And never tells you and Dad about what goes on there?"

"Mum, he _begged_ Professor Dumbledore not to make him go back there after first year," Ron added. He shot a dirty look at the headmaster. "You didn't believe him, did you?"

"I had my reasons for making him stay there."

Ron opened his mouth to argue the point, but his father put a hand on his shoulder to calm him and said, "Albus, have you ever heard of _child abuse?"_ he said, stressing the words. "What good does it do to keep him safe from Death Eaters when he may very well be in even greater danger from his own _family?_ Let him be. I don't know where he's hiding, but he knows where he can find help if he needs it. Now you tell us You-Know-Who is finally truly dead. If that's so, the news will keep. Besides, doesn't he have a subscription to the Daily Prophet? He'll find out soon enough."

"There are other matters that must be investigated," Albus insisted. "I'll be calling a meeting of the Order tonight. Finding Harry will have to be our first priority."

Ron made a face. "Professor, try writing him a letter. We have Hedwig here with us; she should be able to find him just about anywhere."

It had been a long and tiring day, setting affairs in order after the reading of both the Potter and Black wills. Most of it had been well and truly beyond his understanding; Mr. Walsh had handled all of it, explaining where necessary, then offered to arrange a tutor for summer lessons on finance and estate management. He was well qualified to handle it all, but he would be doing better by his client to have him trained so he could understand all that was happening and be able to make informed decisions, rather than just giving the solicitor _carte blanche_. Deciding that the offer proved, more than anything else could have, that the man could be trusted, Harry promptly agreed. The tutor would contact him to set up a schedule of appointments.

It was nearing dinner time when he finally returned to his manor. _His_ manor; wasn't _that_ an awesome concept! He had just finished eating when Hedwig found him in the dining room. She was carrying two letters; Tolly would not permit Harry to take them from her. "Mail can be booby-trapped," he said. "Allow me to scan them first."

"I understand," Harry said, "but this is my own owl. She was staying with my best friend; if she's got mail for me, it's from him, and I don't think Ron even knows how to put a booby-trap on mail—though I wouldn't put it past the twins to try to prank me." He grinned at the prospect of foiling any such attempt. "Go ahead."

A moment later, Tolly was handing him the letters, which had proved to be free of traps; one was indeed from Ron; the other was from Professor Dumbledore. _Probably going spare, wondering where I am,_ Harry thought. _He can just keep wondering; serves him right for leaving me in the dark for all those years._ With that, he set Dumbledore's letter aside and opened Ron's.

 _Hey, Harry._

 _Great news! Dumbledore told us that You-Know-Who is gone for good! He won't tell us how he knows, and he says he doesn't even know himself exactly what happened, but he's really upset because he doesn't know where you are. Don't know what business it is of his; I don't blame you for running off, but we are kind of worried about you. You don't have to tell us where you are, but just let us know you're okay. Mum's afraid you might "do something hasty," as she puts it. I think we finally got through to her that we weren't pulling her leg when we told her what we saw when we rescued you summer after first year._

 _You know you're still welcome to come stay with us for a while; Hermione will be here sometime in August, when she gets back from holiday with her parents. Hope you'll come._

 _Talk to you later, mate._

— _Ron_

He'd expected news of this nature; Kurluk had told him that the particular type of casting-out he'd done would drain Voldemort's magic, and he knew too severe a magical drain could kill someone. He also recalled that Dumbledore didn't approve of killing; he insisted on giving people second, third, and even fourth chances. After the disaster at the Department of Mysteries, though, he no longer agreed with that philosophy. Clearly fifteen years in Azkaban hadn't done anything to "redeem" the Death Eaters who had been there; if anything, Dementor exposure had made them even worse. It made no sense to avoid killing the enemy when they had no qualms about killing you. They hadn't been throwing stinging hexes that night. War was kill or be killed, full stop.

Shoving the thoughts aside before they led him into another fit of grief, he opened the second letter.

 _Harry,_

 _Please meet me at Grimmauld Place as soon as possible. There are urgent matters I must discuss with you now that Voldemort is dead._

 _Professor Dumbledore_

 _Oh, what_ else _is he finally going to let me know about?_ Harry wondered, all the anger that had caused him to destroy Dumbledore's office flooding back even stronger than before. Well, no time like the present to find out, he decided. He'd have to remember not to meet his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

When he stepped out of the Floo, he expected to see Dumbledore waiting for him. He did _not_ expect what else he saw.

The room into which he fell was absolutely spotless. The smell of dust and mildew was gone from the air; while the décor was still far too dark in color for his tastes, the fact that it was all _clean_ made it look at least a little brighter. It helped that the heavy, dark drapes had been pulled back to let the sunlight in through windows that sparkled.

The headmaster smiled at Harry's gobsmacked expression. "Yes, I, too, was quite surprised when I arrived. Kreacher has undergone quite a change, himself, as well."

Reminded that Sirius had left this place to him, Harry remembered the old elf and realized that he would have been included in the estate; he called him.

"Master calls Kreacher?"

The absence of insults was the first thing to grab Harry's attention. The second thing he noticed was that Kreacher was standing straighter than he had ever done as long as Harry had known him. The third thing was the fact that the elf's filthy, worn-out tea towel had been replaced by a fresh pillowcase, clean, pressed, and bearing the Black coat of arms. "Wow, Kreacher, you look good," he said.

"Master Regulus tells Kreacher to destroy locket. Kreacher is unable to do so for many years. Nasty, dark magic in locket whispers, whispers, always whispers. Locket makes Kreacher say nasty things. Then locket glows, and whispering stops. Locket is cleansed as Master Regulus wishes. And Kreacher is…Kreacher again."

"Kreacher, let me see this locket," Dumbledore said—all too eagerly, Harry thought.

The elf looked at Harry. "Does Master permit this?"

After a moment's thought, Harry replied, "Not right now, Kreacher. I'd like to hear what else Professor Dumbledore has to say first."

The headmaster was frowning now. "Harry, I'm sure Ron Weasley has already informed you of Voldemort's demise. I would like to know how you accomplished it."

Fixing his gaze firmly on the old man's nose, Harry said, "All I did was disown him from the House of Slytherin. Anything else, Lady Magic did all by herself."

"You…how did you do that?"

Harry showed his rings. "I'm now The Slytherin of Slytherin; with that authority, I disowned him for acting against his Head."

Several reactions warred for control of Dumbledore's features. "That was…utterly ingenious," he finally said, giving Harry the distinct impression that he did not enjoy admitting that. "But I am at a loss to understand how you gained that authority in the first place, at your age."

"I don't see where it's really any of your business, especially since you never told me about my heritage."

His attempts to meet Harry's eyes finally drew his attention to the fact that the boy's scar was missing. He sensed no glamour on him. "Harry, how are you hiding your scar?"

"It's not there anymore," he said. "Oh, let me guess. You knew it was a Horcrux, didn't you?" A wicked glee filled him at Dumbledore's quickly-hidden startlement; it was followed rapidly by realization, and even more anger. "You knew it was a Horcrux, just like you knew about that damn prophecy! You've been _manipulating_ me all my life! You made me stay with people who hated me, who treated me worse than Mr. Malfoy treated Dobby so I wouldn't care if I lived or died, because you thought the only way to get rid of it was for me to die. Well, without me, who was going to kill Voldemort for you? You sure wouldn't! How many chances were you going to give someone who didn't _want_ to change?"

"But all those others…"

Harry cut him off. "Professor Dumbledore, you're my Headmaster, and that is _all._ You are no longer my magical guardian, because Sirius emancipated me in his Will. So you have no business in _my house._ Kreacher, show him out. If he doesn't go willingly, _eject_ him."

"Yes, Master." The implacable house elf began to usher the old man toward the front door; when he kept trying to sidestep the elf, Kreacher grabbed his arm and popped out.

 _All those others,_ Dumbledore had said. Did that mean all the Death Eaters were gone too? He wasn't sure of that, nor did he have any idea how it could have happened; he decided not worry about it.

A moment later, Kreacher returned alone. "Does Master wish Kreacher to bar old Whitebeard from returning?"

"Yes, please, Kreacher. In fact, if you can change the wards to keep the whole Order of the Phoenix out, I'd appreciate it. Voldemort's gone; there's no need for them to keep meeting here. Later you can show me how to update the wards to allow my friends through."

Kreacher went very still for a long moment; then he snapped his fingers. Harry felt _something_ happen and knew that the elf had accomplished the deed. "Thank you, Kreacher."

The elf's eyes went wide. "Master _thanks_ Kreacher for doing as he's told!" he said in surprise, though not in the tearful, almost histrionic way that Dobby had handled the same consideration.

"You may be a servant, but you still deserve courtesy. You'll always have it from me. Now, there's one more thing you can do for me before I leave. I know you loved your old mistress, but her portrait can really get annoying. Is there any way you can silence her?"

Now Kreacher seemed embarrassed. "Mistress says nasty things about new Master. Bond-magic does not allow Kreacher to tolerate this. Kreacher has already silenced her," he admitted in a voice gone very soft. "Only The Black can remove the portrait. Master is now The Black."

"Tell me how to do it…pleeeeeze?" Harry said eagerly.

.

He could see the look of despair on Walburga's face as he spoke the ritual declaration that released the portrait's sticking charm. The bottom of the frame hit the floor with a _thud;_ a snap of Kreacher's fingers kept it from falling over onto Harry.

 _Another_ ritual declaration, Harry thought. That made two in a single day; he hoped this wasn't going to become a habit.

Walburga raised clasped hands to him in what was clearly an entreaty to be permitted to speak to him; wondering if he was going to regret this, he told Kreacher to restore her voice.

 _"You_ are now Head of House Black?" she asked, the slight emphasis on the pronoun evidence of the derision she was barely holding in check.

"Yes, I am."

He could tell she dearly wanted to start bemoaning the depths to which her once-great family had fallen, could practically _feel_ her effort to hold it back; it told him a great deal about the extent of the authority wielded by a Head of House.

"How?" she demanded.

"Sirius left it to me in his Will."

She couldn't quite manage to suppress the haughty sniff. "He shouldn't have had it to pass on in the first place; I disowned him."

Harry shrugged, at a loss himself.

"Well, speak up; don't shrug. It's ungentlemanly."

"I don't know; Sirius didn't get a chance to explain it all to me. But my grandmother was Dorea Black." Her rebuke just now had started the wheels turning. "Enough. I've had a long day, and it's getting late. I'm willing to let you remain on this wall, unsilenced, if you will adhere to several conditions. First, I will not tolerate pureblood bigotry. I know you're locked into the beliefs you held at the time this portrait was made; you're to keep them to yourself from now on. That includes anything about Voldemort. He's dead, and so, apparently, are his followers. His cause is finished, and I want to put it behind me. Second… I need instruction. Albus Too-Many-Middle-Names Dumbledore, also known as The Goat-Bearded One, deliberately kept me completely ignorant of my heritage; I only learned about it yesterday by _accident._ He kept me isolated from the wizarding world until I was eleven; the first I knew it even existed was when I got my Hogwarts letter." He watched her eyes grow wider and wider in horror as he explained exactly _why_ he needed instruction at this late date. "My grandparents' portrait will be teaching me about the House of Potter and my duties there, and my solicitor is arranging a tutor for general finance and estate management. I need you to teach me everything you can about etiquette as it relates to the House of Black. I'll be asking Arcturus' portrait to teach me the history of the Blacks and my duties as Head of this House. And finally, there will be no screaming at any visitors, not even if they're utter Muggles. Do you intend to abide by these conditions?"

To his surprise, she dropped a curtsey and said formally, "It shall be as you command, my lord. As ever, I serve the House of Black."

A few moments later, the portrait had been stuck back up on the wall.

"When can Kreacher expect Master back?" the old elf wanted to know.

"Probably sometime tomorrow. I'd like a complete tour of the house then; there were too many rooms that were locked, or that I wasn't allowed in last year. I'd also like to see the cellar and the attic at that time." He grinned at Kreacher's crestfallen look. "Don't worry if those areas haven't been cleaned yet. Do I need to worry about cursed objects?"

"There are still many dangerous heirlooms here, Master."

"Why don't you gather them all in one place—but only if you can do it safely. Tell me where they are tomorrow, so I can avoid them until I can have a curse-breaker take a look at them."

"Yes, Master."

At that moment, he heard a bell tinkle. "What is that?"

"Mail owl, Master. Kreacher will get it." He was back a moment later. "Letter is safe, Master," he said, handing Harry an envelope. "Owl is waiting for a reply."

"Thanks," Harry said, and opened it where he stood. It was from his solicitor.

 _I have taken the liberty of arranging an appointment for you at my office for ten o'clock tomorrow morning, for the purpose of discussing a press release regarding your assumption of your lordships. The circumstances surrounding the events of yesterday make this more than a routine announcement._

The Floo address was included at the end of the letter.

In the study, he found parchment, ink, and a quill and dashed off a reply, then sealed it and handed it to Kreacher. When the elf returned, Harry told him, "I have an appointment with my solicitor tomorrow morning; I don't know how long it's likely to take. I'll send word with Tolly or Dobby as soon as I know." He smiled as he looked around the room, just as scrubbed as the rest of the house that Harry had seen so far. "Good work on the house, Kreacher. Go get some rest; you've earned it."

Was that a _smile_ he saw on the elf's face?

.

The matronly receptionist smiled at Harry as he picked himself up after stumbling out of the Floo. "Muggleborn?" she asked kindly.

"Muggle-raised," he answered.

"There's a slight trick to Floo travel. Stand with your right foot a little forward, like this." She demonstrated. "It stops the spin and helps keep you from falling over."

"Thanks."

"It'll take a bit of practice, but before you know it, you'll be handling it like a pro. Now, do you have an appointment today?"

"Yes; I'm supposed to see Mr. Walsh at ten."

She checked a book. "Right this way, Mr. Potter." She led him into a conference room. "Mr. Walsh will be with you shortly; would you like anything to drink while you're waiting?"

"Just some water will be fine."

Hardly were the words out of his mouth when a tumbler of cold water appeared before him, along with a pitcher with more in it.

A few minutes later, Ben Walsh came in; Harry rose, and they shook hands. "Good morning, Mr. Potter. How are you today?"

"I'm fine, thanks. What's this about a press release?"

"It's customary, when the Heir of a Most Ancient House takes up his lordship, for an announcement to be printed in the society pages. Normally, that's something I could handle without involving you at all, except to approve the notice before I send it to the paper. However, the fact that you've replaced the defunct Gaunt Family as the only living descendant of Salazar Slytherin is newsworthy all by itself; then the Goblins contacted me and informed me that a large number of Heirs came into their inheritances, all of them the offspring of Death Eaters."

Harry nodded. "Professor Dumbledore hinted that the rest of the Death Eaters were affected as well, when I spoke to him yesterday evening. But how?"

"They told me the Dark Mark linked them all to him; he probably tried to draw their magic to save himself, and ended up killing all of them himself. One or two may have survived, if they were not in the room with him at the time; the greater the distance involved, the better their odds of survival.

"Now, given the smear campaign the _Prophet_ ran—I'm guessing, at the Ministry's orders…" At Harry's confirmatory nod he continued, "I think it's best if you break the news yourself before the Ministry can put out their version."

"So long as Rita Skeeter has nothing whatsoever to do with it, and whoever handles it is not allowed to use a Quik-Quotes Quill."

"I think we can manage both. Now here's my rough draft; let's get to work fleshing it out a bit and polishing it up."

.

The Order of the Phoenix met in a room at the Hog's Head. Dumbledore was deeply upset as he announced the death of Voldemort. The group started to erupt in cheers, but he quelled the nascent celebration. "I'm concerned about the effect it has had on Harry. Yesterday, he went to Gringotts and got his full inheritance."

"But he isn't of age yet!" Molly protested.

"Sirius emancipated him in his Will. As a result, he was able to claim his lordships. He told me he learned that, in addition to the Potter and Black estates, he was able to claim the Slytherin lordship, not only by conquest, but by blood. He then disowned Voldemort by ritual declaration. This caused Voldemort to lose his magic. He apparently tried to draw on the magic of his marked followers. Severus survived, though he is currently under Madam Pomfrey's care for magical exhaustion. His Dark Mark is completely gone."

Bill Weasley had to struggle to keep from laughing. He had met with Harry late that afternoon to discuss cleansing a number of Dark artifacts at the Black townhouse. In the course of their discussion, Harry had told him his side of the story. While Dumbledore's version agreed at all the important points, what Dumbledore wasn't saying would fill a book.

The old headmaster had more to say. "From the way he summarily threw me out of Grimmauld Place, I'm afraid all that power has gone to his head, and he may well be going dark on us."

Under cover of the bedlam that erupted at that statement, Bill allowed himself a derisive snort.

Moody's voice cut through the cacophony as he said, "I don't believe that for one minute! The lad just did what he had to do, quick and clean. He probably saved all our lives!"

At the same time, Minerva's thickening brogue demanded, "What did ye expect, when the puir bairn's not had an ounce o' love shown him? I _told_ ye those Dursleys were the worst sort o' Muggles!"

"Is that an acceptable reason for the wanton murder—"

"Oh, come off it!" Bill interrupted, slamming his hands on the table. That remark was the last straw. "You're telling us he's going dark just because he didn't do it your way? Get a clue, Dumbledore! The sun doesn't rise and set when you stand up and sit down!"

Molly gasped. "William Arthur Weasley! How dare you!"

Bill looked at her in disgust. "Grow up, Mum," he said. "Can't you see he's been manipulating that kid since the day he was born? It's about bloody time he kicked himself free." Turning back to Dumbledore, he said, "Face it, old man: Your puppet has cut his strings; your pawn has made it all the way across the board and is now a queen."

Anything else he might have said was cut off by the arrival of several owls with a special evening edition of the _Daily Prophet._ Silence fell over the room as those who subscribed began to read, with those who didn't have their own subscriptions looking over their shoulders. No one noticed the color draining from Dumbledore's face as his web of power disintegrated before his eyes.

You-Know-Who Defeated!  
Boy Who Lived now Lord Who Conquered!  
Death of Dark Lord Confirmed by Gringotts

In an interview with Lord Potter-Black-Slytherin, we were told in some detail how this came about. It began when Harry Potter finally managed to locate his ancestral manor. He arrived with only his grandparents' portrait to greet him; in the course of their conversation, they instructed him to speak to his account manager at Gringotts. There he discovered his magical heritage, a heritage that had been kept from him by his magical guardian…

It went on to recount how a simple declaration had destroyed the worst Dark Lord since Grindelwald, without a single mention of Dumbledore. As first one, then another of the Order Members gathered belongings and walked out, Bill threw back his head and laughed.

 **The end…AKA:  
** **Lascivia Capessita  
** **(Mischief Managed)**

 **A/N:** To answer the question I know full well is coming, there may or may not be a sequel. I know there's a lot in Harry's future, now that his personal albatross is off his back for good, and I do have a few ideas, but they're refusing to come together at the moment. IF there is a sequel, it will be a while before I get it posted, because I will not post a story before I complete it. Yes, for those of you who haven't read any of my other works, that is my pledge to my readers. I've seen too many stories abandoned here; additionally, I'm well aware of the fact that my own muse has this nasty tendency to disappear, sometimes even for years at a time. I refuse to subject my readers to that.

Merry Christmas, everybody!

-Jake


End file.
